“Fuck!” Alistair shouted as he was once more forced to dive behind a large tree just in time to avoid the burst of blue bolts of energy. Instead of striking him like they obviously intended to, they instead tore jagged chunks from the tree’s trunk.
Alistair scrambled back to his feet and kept running as fast as his failing body allowed him too despite the increasing sense of weakness and imbalance. He glanced back towards the group of what he had to assume were military based on their matching gear and magic. He had no idea where they came from, or why they were so intent on killing him, but that didn’t stop him from flipping them the bird as he dashed behind more trees, refusing to give them a clear shot.
A howling battle cry echoed out through the trees informing Alistair that Parsival was still occupying a large portion of the melee units. He had initially leaped towards the first of these soldiers when they appeared amidst a barrage of magical bolts, but when a large handful of them separated from the rest and charged forwards with swords and maces he switched targets. They all wore thick heavy plate armor with each piece covered in flowing lines and symbols that reminded Alistair of runes, but had a twist. They were still runes, but written in a different style, similar to how old English and modern English were different, but still the same language.
The ones flinging bolts and beams towards him still wore parts of heavy plate, but also wore thick blue and black robes decorated in the same symbols. Twisting wooden staffs were held by each of them, most being the source of the blue bolts that ripped apart the trees around him. He couldn’t help but mentally compare this situation to ones he had in the past, except the key difference being here is he had nothing to fire back with.
The truly weird thing about the entire situation however, was the fact they were all shouting at him as they chased him through the forest. He could tell it was in that same Primelorn language, but it was what they were yelling that he was not a fan of.
“The lord demands your demise, aberration!” One of the staff wielders hollered as they released another blast.
“The lord's plan requires your death! Cease your fleeing and die with honor!” another called out
‘Your life is a flaw! Be purged in our lord's name!” a third screamed with such fervor that Alistair couldn’t help but mentally joke about running from the inquisition.
As amusing as he found their shouting, it was taking all of his focus to stay ahead of them while also trying to lead them how he needed to. Parsival was his only real way to fight without time to prepare, and he was currently tied up holding off easily three fourths of the entire force attacking them. Based on the howls of rage mixed in with screams of pain, he assumed his large companion was gaining the upper hand. This left him with two options of what he could do, and he was unsure if he could last long enough for either of them.
It has been roughly a week since he learned how to summon and successfully called forth Boston, but every day that passed his spirit damage was getting worse. The worse it got, the worse he felt and the more difficult he found it was to stay focused and balanced. Suffice to say running through the forest at a dead sprint was not doing him any favors. He was already breathing heavily, sweat running down his face and he was sure the only reason he hadn’t collapsed yet is his legs couldn’t really get tired.
Alistair had set up camp a little earlier than normal because of this weakness and it was that protection dome he made sure to set up every time that saved him from being blown to bits by the initial volley. His muscle memory had kicked in upon being woken up by the sound of a barrage of blasts and he had rolled behind cover. Parsival had also been moving before the blasts even hit, taking out some of the ranged soldiers before the melee moved in.
Parsival had bellowed for Alistair to run, and since he had no real way to fight back without being in the way, he had done just that. As he ran he had tried to figure out why he was being attacked, his first thoughts thinking that maybe these were the infamous bandit groups that seemed to be a major problem in those books he read. Unfortunately he instead seemed to have gotten some religious zealots who kept screaming about how his very presence was an aberration and he needed to die for their lord. It all sounded way too familiar for him, so he ran.
That didn’t stop him from frantically working his brain to come up with a solution, and for the first time in a long time he practically begged to have his old service rifle with him. He was confident if he had it, dealing with these attackers would have been trivial. That is if there hadn’t been the obvious issue of not having it. He had brought the topic of firearms up to Parsival to see if they were utilized in this world, but the only thing close enough that his large friend knew of were essentially just wands with triggers. That didn’t stop him from hoping that perhaps in this current age there had been some civilization who had developed onto the more technological route similar to earth.
He cursed when his metallic foot caught onto a root, sending him tumbling forward but his instincts were still sharp enough he was able to turn that tumble into a half awkward roll. Every day that passed he still couldn't tell if being a magic cyborg would turn out to be a boon or a hindrance. The bluish beam that slammed into the tree right above him, conveniently where his torso had just been, nudged him in the direction of boon.
Alistair took off once more, most of his focus being used to correct his imbalance caused by the spirit damage. He likened it to when he was forced to dash through cities while mortars and grenades constantly shook the ground around him as the concussive waves tried to throw him into every wall possible. The blasts of magic that tore up the trees and ground around him certainly helped bring the comparison to life. He risked a glance backwards and swore once more before ducking, another foot long bar of magic screaming over his head and tearing into a tree trunk.
“Is that the best you fucking got?!” he couldn’t help but shout back to his attackers, his adrenaline fueling his anger towards them, "I've seen dead guys shoot better than you!”
His taunting proved to be a little too effective as a veritable wave of magic bolts tore through the surrounding trees, the only reason he survived being the convenient ditch he dove down into just in time. Scrambling back to his feet, he poured every ounce of speed he had to climb up the other side as he used the cloud of dirt and debris his attackers unwittingly created for him. This would be his moment to act as he moved behind a larger tree and peaked back around to see them all looking around to try and find him.
After taking a moment to examine them to make sure they were all present, Alistair made his move. With an effort of will and a chunk of his aether to accelerate the process, Boston popped into existence then instantly climbed up the tree Alistair currently hid behind. He had thankfully confirmed early on that even though he couldn’t hear any of his summons while they were recalled into the helix, they could hear him and he could get vague feelings from them. With that knowledge, Alistair had been mentally explaining his plan to the odd mechanical goblin, who had sent back a feeling of agreement.
Once Boston was up the tree, Alistair took a breath, then took off once more ensuring the attackers saw him running. The shouts from behind, along with the continued blasts of magic confirmed they saw him and gave chance once more. He could only pray they were too focused on him to notice Boston up in the tree. Seconds passed as more bolts flew past with unnerving accuracy, his serpentine pattern along with how thick the forest was being the only reason he hadn’t been reduced to a red smear by now.
He knew the moment came when there was a small lull in the magic, something he knew meant the mages were moving forward, and he couldn’t help the grin that crossed his face.
“The boss sends his regards” He heard Boston's voice come from behind, his thick accent only increasing the width of Alistair's grin.
Shouts of alarm echoed out from the attackers, yet they only lasted a brief second before a tremendous explosion rocked the forest around Alistair, the sheer force throwing him forward to slam hard into a tree. He had been expecting the blast to be large considering he had asked Boston in detail about the size and force, but the sheer concussive force behind it was more than expected.
He hit the tree with enough speed he could feel the wood crack, and he would have easily broken multiple bones if not for colliding with his left side where his mechanical arm and shoulder took the brunt of it. It still hurt quite a bit though and he saw stars from where his head had made contact with the ground when he rebounded off the tree with a spin.
“New world full of magic, and I'm still getting blown up” He grumbled to himself as he let out a groan while rolling over. He took a moment to wait for his head to stop spinning, then carefully picked himself back up, forced to use Quilectus when he swayed on his feet.
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He looked back the way he came and was stunned at the devastation, at the easily five foot deep crater that was now at the bottom of the ditch. Trees all around it had been splintered and knocked over, the ones within the radius nearly shattered. He stumbled back over to see what remained of his attackers, and was pleased to find partially mulched chunks wrapped in tattered cloth.
Alistair had long grown accustomed to these sorts of gruesome displays, many of them a direct result of his actions, so while he still didn’t find the sight pleasant, he didn’t turn away. He needed to be sure they were all dead, which he now realized would be more difficult since most of them were in pieces. To be on the safe side, he sidled closer to what remained of the large tree he had initially hid behind, though it was mostly just a tall stump at this point.
He figured he could get behind it quick enough if he needed cover while he examined the battlefield. In the distance he could hear Parsival's ongoing fight, but by the sounds he could hear, it mostly sounded like his companion was cleaning up at this point. It was a bit of a shame he couldn't keep one of them alive for questioning, but they have more than proved their willingness to shoot first and talk later.
A groan caught his attention causing his head to snap over in its direction, where one of the mages was slowly trying to climb out from underneath a fallen tree, the remnants of what appeared to be some kind of magic barrier around them. It was flickering like a broken bulb and looked fractured and broken, yet it was enough to keep the mage alive. They were still heavily injured, blood coating half of them while their right arm looked just as shattered as the tree they were trying to push off.
Alistair had to act fast, Boston couldn’t be called back out for nearly a day, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep running. So he did the only thing he knew would solve the problem, even if it was risky. He gambled everything on the idea that the barrier they used drained them of all their aether, and he dashed forward as fast as he could right towards the mage.
His steps were awkward and he almost fell more than once, but threw all of his momentum at the mage. He slammed bodily first into the mage right as the man pushed the broken piece of tree off him and Alistair could hear the air get shoved out of his lungs as already cracked ribs broke further. The mage tried to scream but it came out as a bloody gurgle, but that didn’t stop him from trying to fight Alistair off.
His unbroken arm swung out to strike at him, but the blow was sloppy and weak, so Alistair simply took it, ignoring the flare of pain to his face. Alistair’s response was a frustrated growl as he straddled the man and did the only thing he could do. He wrapped both his hands around the mage’s throat, and squeezed. The man's eyes went wide with the realization of what Alistair was doing to him and his struggles only intensified, his entire body thrashing around.
Alistair only growled as he tried to squeeze harder, understanding that if his strength failed, he would be the one to die instead. Desperation filled the mage’s eyes as his face began to turn blue, his eyes watering while he struggled to draw in breath. His thrashing was becoming weaker with every second that passed, but so did Alistair’s own strength. Keeping up the pressure on the man's throat was taking every ounce of focus he held within his body, even going so far as ignoring the blows the mage was hammering into his face.
The desperation in the man's eyes only grew until it became full blown panic, yet the blows were only growing weaker. Alistair threw every ounce of strength he had left into squeezing, his gaze never leaving the mages. It was when the desperation and panic turned into a combination of acceptance and triumph as his hand fell away when alarm bells rang in his mind. Alistair tried to draw out even more strength, but the look in the mage’s eye only grew in intensity as a bloody grin crossed his now purple face.
Movement to his left drew Alistair attention, and when he looked over he wanted to curse. The mage was clutching a strange purple and red crystal carved into the shape of a crescent. Every instinct in Alistair's body and soul screamed at him to get away as a sense of revulsion filled him at the sight of the thing. He wasted no time in hurling himself off the mage’s body and diving down into the crater, yet the sound of what he thought was breaking glass greeted his ears, and a sense of dread overwhelmed him.
An ear piercing shriek of the likes he never thought could exist slammed into his body and his spirit, and he instantly began to convulse. The sound was the scream of over a thousand dying souls all crying out in their own eternal anguish all while trying to drag him into it. The sound filled his very existence, it was all he could hear, could feel. It was everywhere, tearing deep into his very being as if each voice that screamed out attempted to devour a piece of him.
Despite all that, years of muscle memory and battle instincts told him he needed to move or he would die, so his body moved. His arms trembled as he reached forwards and dug his hands into the dirt, dragging himself away from the terrible sound, desperate to gain as much distance as he could from the noise. Inch by inch he crawled, and with every inch he gained, the noise became that much tolerable, the effects seemingly to lessen every so slightly as he moved.
He crawled for what felt like hours, every inch he gained felt like miles, yet he still crawled. Alistair was barely conscious of his actions, but still he crawled, his need for survival giving his body all the strength it needed. Inch by inch, handful by handful the dirt passed by beneath him, the awful sound ever so slowly becoming that much quieter.
Parsival had just finished off the last of the warriors that had dared to attack his lord, his aether eyes glancing around to see if any of them had the gall to live. He had barely looked around for but a moment when he heard it, the sound of a magic item he had hoped would have been lost to time, The banshee’s call. If he had had blood, it would have run cold within his veins as the source seemed to emanate from the direction he felt Mr. Grant in.
His fears were confirmed when a wave of anguish came across their connection, so he wasted no time in taking off in a full sprint towards his lord. He had hoped that perhaps Mr. Grant had gained enough distance he would be spared of the worse effects, but the levels of pain and torment he could feel his lord in did not bode well. How had these people gained access to such a vile creation? He wondered to himself. The Banshee’s call were last ditch items only the truly desperate used, or those who knew they were doomed and desired to take their foe with them. If these people were going to be constantly hunting them down, while carrying such items, their future looked bleak.
He arrived at the sight of devastation, a large crater at the bottom of a ditch, one of the mages just outside of it clutching a broken crystal in their dying grasp. Without hesitation, Parsival slashed down onto the crystal with an aether infused strike, disrupting the spell and putting an end to the vile sound that was even giving him some pain. With the sound cut off, he quickly glanced around and found a trail in the dirt where it looked as if a body had been dragged on the opposite side of the crater.
He leaped over and soon found his lord half buried in the underbrush, his hands weakly grasping out as if to keep dragging himself. Parsival hissed in displeasure as it did not look good, a quick scan with a surge of aether only confirming what he had feared. Mr. Grant had been too close to the item's activation and was now suffering the effects. What had made the item so feared, to the point of outlawing in most cities, was not only did it disrupt one’s channels and therefore making it nearly impossible to utilize their aether, if someone was too close to it upon its use, the disruption was enough the person spirit rapidly tore itself apart.
Parsival looked around frantically as he tried to come up with a solution, but he wasn’t sure what he could do. Mr. Grant was already suffering from an escalating spirit damage, and being affected by the Banshee’s call only guaranteed as well as accelerated his demise from it. He had perhaps half a glass at best before his spirit was torn asunder and he became a soul husk, something Parsival could not allow. The orbs of magic that made up his eyes widened as a possible solution came to mind, but he wasn’t sure if it would work. Who was he kidding, if he didn’t at least try something, Mr. Grant was as good as dead anyways.
He looked down at his own hand, then back to Alistair’s twitching form. A sense of calm and acceptance washed over Parsival as he glanced one more time over the man who had risked so much to give him another chance at life. It would only be fitting if he made the same sacrifice. At least he had been able to spend his final moments outside and in an actual body instead of stuck inside that forsaken orb.
“Thank you for everything you have done for me Mr. Grant” Parsival said, “You gave me a chance to die the way a true warrior should, protecting their comrades.”
Wasting no more words, Parsival self-canceled his summoning and streamed back into Mr. Grant’s spirit, where he was immediately assaulted by the turmoil it was under.
He could feel it as it frayed at the edges, it's very structure threatening to collapse at any moment. He had been incorrect in his earlier estimate, Mr. Grant had perhaps only moments before he met his end, so Parsival got to work. He gathered all his power, his will and his skill with aether before turning it all towards one task.
Parsival pushed out against the constraints of the summoner's helix, the effort it took greater than he expected, but that didn’t stop him. He only pushed harder, feeling the strain, it was placing on his own spirit as it felt similar to trying to squeeze a flesh and blood body through the bars of a cell. Pain wracked his spiritual form as he pushed yet pushed, he did and with a mental roar of defiance and desperation, he jerked himself free of the helix.
The pain was astronomical, yet he kept his goal fixated in the forefront of his mind, ignoring everything else that wouldn't contribute to saving Mr. Grant. Another silent roar of great effort filled the void as Parsival’s spiritual body stretched out inside of Alistair’s own, wispy tendrils of purple and blue reaching out to grasp onto the fraying edges of Alistair’s silvery gray spirit and tugging them back to where they need to be back.
The pain Parsival was experiencing in that moment was beyond what the mortal mind should have been capable of enduring, yet he did as even when his mind went blank, his single-minded drive of saving Alistair kept him moving. Bit by bit, the edges of Alistair’s spirit that were coming undone from their framework were being seized by the tendrils of Parsival’s and pulled back into place, before essentially being sewn in place by those same tendrils.
Time passed in a blur for the both of them, yet that didn’t stop Parsival from continuing, even when his felt on the verge of shattering, he kept grasping and sewing, using his own spiritual threads that made up his very being to hold Alistair’s in place, refusing to allow them to fray any further. It was only when he failed to find any more areas to reattach that Parsival allowed himself to focus his attention on anything but the task. He had enough time to give one final glance over his work, give himself a mental nod, then his consciousness faded away.
